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Sam’s first clue that something’s wrong is in Dallas, when Dean starts taking his clothes off in the middle of The Galleria. They’ve been up for thirty-six hours and sure, Dean’s done some weird shit when he’s wired and tired, but this? This is hands down the craziest fucking thing Sam’s ever seen.
Clothes are flying everywhere -- Dean’s jacket hits a mannequin, making it tip precariously, his T-shirt soon follows, winding up in Sam’s face and it’s this that snaps Sam out of his daze enough to say, “Dude! What the fuck are you doing?!” voice pitched just below a shout. Okay, it’s pretty fucking obvious at this point just what Dean’s doing, there’s just no logical explanation as to why.
“I don’t know, but I can’t stop! I just. Have to get naked. Like. Right now.”
When Dean starts going for his belt, Sam tackles him, pushing him into the wall. “This is really not the place to decide you’d like to live the life of a nudist, Dean. Mall cops frown on blatant nudity and they’re twitchy bitches. We’re supposed to be under the radar here, right?”
Dean writhes against him, hands scrambling for his own belt, but Sam catches him by both wrists, pinning them above Dean’s head. It’s no use, though, because Dean’s still twitching like a wildman, hips rutting against Sam’s like he’s trying to use the friction of Sam’s body to tug his own pants down. And wouldn’t you know, Sam’s cock decides that it likes this position just fine, straining painfully against Sam’s zipper. It’s pretty obvious Dean’s dick is enjoying the party, too, because Sam can feel it dragging along his every now and then, causing Dean to make these really fucking obscene growls in the back of his throat. Sam’s pretty fucking close to joining him, the friction making the breath catch in the back of his throat.
He can’t imagine what they look like, hopes to fucking Hell no one notices them -- or God fucking forbid, hears them -- but Sam’s never had the best of luck -- an understatement of gigantic proportions -- and he hears the unmistakable sound of footsteps behind him.
“Sir, uh. Excuse me, sir?” the saleswoman says, coughing in a way that’s discreet, but obviously a cover for the laughter she’s trying to suppress. “Is there something I can help you with? A shirt, perhaps, for your boy . . . your friend?”
“Yes! Shirt! A shirt would be good! Lots of shirts. All the shirts! And a dressing room!” Anything to get them somewhere nice and hidden, out of the open where they might be able to figure out what the fuck is going on. He wraps his arms around Dean -- who’s still thrashing against him, eyes wide and mumbling things like naked naked naked -- dragging him towards the dressing rooms, leaving a trail of shoes and socks in their wake.
He’s just managed to shut the door when Dean’s belt hits the floor, the sound like a gunshot. But instead of killing him with a wound to his vital organs, this sound sends the rest of the blood left in his body rushing straight for his dick. The sane part of Sam wants to stop Dean, calm things down and figure out what to do to halt this madness, but the crazy, unbelievably fucked up, incredibly horny part of Sam wants to lean against the door and watch the show. Sanity prevails, just barely, and Sam grabs Dean’s hands again, just as his pants and shorts hit the floor. “Dean. Dean! Snap the fuck out of it, man!”
Sam’s not sure if his words have somehow gotten through to Dean, or if it’s the fact that he’s, finally, completely naked, but the frantic energy drains out of Dean and he slumps onto the bench provided for potential customers, kicking out of the last of his clothes.
“Why the hell did I just do that?!” Dean asks and he’s as confused as Sam’s ever seen him.
“I was hoping you’d tell me. What were you doing right before it happened?”
Dean pauses and it’s clear to Sam that he’s thinking back over what just happened, because he can see the dawning horror on his brother’s face. “I was imaginingsomeonegettingnaked.”
“Say what?”
“I was imagining someone getting naked. And then, all of a sudden, I thought it would be a really fucking great idea if I didn’t have any clothes on.”
“Who were you picturing naked?”
“That doesn’t matter!”
“It might! We don’t know what this is, Dean! Maybe you pictured a witch or a psychic naked and she took it out on you with a spell!”
“It wasn’t a witch or a psychic!”
“How the hell can you possibly know that?”
“I just do!”
“That’s really helpful, Dean. If we got these sorts of answers from people we interviewed, we’d never figure anything out.”
“Just trust me on this, okay?” Dean asks, slumping against the wall and closing his eyes.
It’s been a long time since Sam’s seen Dean naked, long before he’d started feeling things that were far from brotherly for him and the sight of him, stretched out along the bench is tempting in the extreme. Apparently Sam’s libido doesn’t care that Dean’s under some sort of spell or curse, because all his dick is concerned with is the fact that Dean looks fucking delicious on display. Dean’s dick, too, seems pretty okay with the way things are going, because it’s hard, curving up toward’s Dean’s stomach in a way that makes Sam want to fall on his knees and beg.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Sam starts pacing the small confines of the room, feeling like a caged animal. He thinks about leaving, letting Dean get dressed on his own, but doesn’t trust that something else equally crazy won’t happen the minute Dean’s out of his sight. “Look. Just get dressed and we’ll head back to the motel and try to figure this thing out. Maybe it was a one-time deal.”
But, Dean’s not listening to a word Sam’s saying. In fact, he’s looking at Sam in a way that he’s seen Dean look at girls their whole lives. And then Dean’s dropping onto his knees in front of him and reaching for the fly of his pants.
“What the ever loving fuck are you doing now, Dean?” Although it’s pretty clear from the way Dean’s licking his lips and sliding the zipper down on Sam’s pants. The way he’s reaching inside Sam’s shorts, drawing him out through the opening. “Dean? Dean, no, no, no, no, no, no,” Sam says, though it’s a feeble attempt at stopping things, especially when Sam’s threading his hands through Dean’s hair, gripping tight at the base of Dean’s neck and drawing him forward. “Wait! What were you thinking right before you started all this?”
Sam’s proud of himself for that bit of intelligent thought, because most of his brain is focused on how wet Dean’s lips are and how much he wants to fuck himself into that insanely perfect mouth.
“What?” Dean asks, shaking his head, clearly trying to fight whatever compulsion is controlling him.
“What were your exact thoughts right before this?”
“I was thinking about the way your body felt on mine. I was thinking I wanted your mouth on me, Sammy. Wanted you on your knees in front of me sucking my dick. Same fucking things I’ve been thinking for months.”
“Holy fuck,” Sam says, just as Dean leans forward, wrapping his lips around the head of Sam’s cock. It’s hot and wet and fucking amazing, the way Dean’s mouthing at the tip, using his tongue to lick the slit. It’s obvious Dean’s done this before, there’s a finesse there that you don’t get from always being on the receiving end and it makes Sam jealous in a way he’s never felt before. He grips Dean’s hair tighter, using the force of his hand to guide Dean, to hold him in place, claim his mouth in a way that Dean will always remember. Sam’s knees buckle a bit, sending him stumbling towards the wall and it’s only the presence of that immovable object that keeps him on his feet. Dean’s mouth falls away from him on a wet, sucking pop and he licks his lips, moaning as he strokes his own cock, watching Sam through lowered lashes.
Sam’s just about to join him, is reaching for his own dick when Dean glides across the floor like his knees are made of magic. Slinking in this fucking sexy way that’s a mix between a predator and a wet dream. He slides his lips back around the head of Sam’s dick, hollows his cheeks and wraps his right hand around the base, barely moving in time with the pulls he’s using on his own.
Dean does this thing with his teeth that causes Sam to hiss out a breath. “Jesus, fuck, Dean. Do that again.”
His brother laughs, low in his chest, the vibrations causing Sam’s hips to jerk erratically, tip hitting the back of Dean’s throat. Dean obliges him by humming and Sam’s balls tighten, draw into his body. He’s barely able to gasp, “Dean, I’m--” before he’s coming, thrusting into Dean’s mouth fast and rough. Dean swallows him down, fingers digging into Sam’s thighs.
He sinks to the floor in front of Dean, wanting to curl up in the corner and sleep like a contented cat in the sun, but Dean’s still fisting himself, almost to the point of orgasm and Sam wants nothing so much as to taste him when he comes. “Stand up,” he says, his voice wrecked, but more commanding than usual. He’s surprised by the tone, by the way he wants to tell Dean what to do and by the way Dean just fucking does it.
Dean leans over him, hands splayed on the wall and Sam takes Dean’s cock into his mouth, slipping his lips down and down until his nose brushes the curling hairs at the base. He smells like sex and warmth and Dean, making Sam moan, fingers digging into Dean’s hipbones. He hopes there are marks there tomorrow, proof of this -- of them -- marring the pale white skin. Relaxing his throat, he fights the panic, the urge to choke. It’s been years since he’s done this, but soon he finds the right rhythm, the right combination of tongue and teeth and lips. He’s controlling the whole thing, large hands more than a match for Dean’s thrusts, which are getting more and more broken. A swirl of his tongue against the base of the head and Dean yells, grunts and comes, salt and sex against the back of Sam’s throat.
Dean stumbles from the wall, collapses on the bench and Sam joins him there as soon as he remembers how his limbs work. He’s acutely aware of the fact that his mouth is coated with his brother’s come and that Dean isn’t saying anything, isn’t even looking in his direction. The silence stretches between them, almost a physical presence in the room and it makes Sam want to squirm, makes him want to fling the door wide and run out of the mall and never stop. Finally, he can’t take it anymore, is just about to break the silence himself, say pretty much fucking anything, when Dean beats him to the punch.
“Would that have ever happened, Sammy? If what just happened hadn’t happened?”
Sam clears his throat, tries not to laugh at the convoluted question, because now’s not exactly the time for humor. “I don’t know, Dean. Honestly, I just don’t know. I wanted it to. Been wanting it to for a while, but if you hadn’t made the first move, I’m not sure I would have. Ever, maybe.”
“Oh.” Dean says, picking up what’s left of his clothes and slipping back into them. “Are you sorry it happened?” Dean asks and Sam’s never heard that tone in his brother’s voice before. He sounds vulnerable and scared, like he thinks something’s changed between them, something irreversible and final.
Sorry it happened? Hell, no. But, Sam’s scared, too. Where exactly do they go from here? What happens next? Dean looks a bit lost, sitting there in just his jeans, so Sam slips out of his jacket, takes off his flannel shirt and passes it over, finally deciding on what to say. “Not sorry. Not at all. But, once we figure out what’s going on, I think we need to talk.”
Dean nods as he buttons the too-large shirt. He looks like a kid who’s raided his father’s closet and Sam’s chest feels tight, not quite big enough to hold his heart.
There’s a noise outside the door, then a knock and feminine giggling. “Everything okay in there, boys? Sounded like things got a bit . . . distracted there for a while. I have some shirts if you need them. Oh, and the gentleman’s shoes and socks.”
They look at each other and bust out laughing. Oh, God, seeing Dean laugh is such a rare thing it makes that clenching in Sam’s heart go from mild-fondness to flat-out chick-flick, soupy, sappy love and it takes enormous amounts of strength not to gush about his feelings. Whatever this is between them, whatever line they’ve crossed, Sam’s not sorry, won’t ever be and he hopes like hell Dean isn’t either.
Adjusting their clothes, they storm out of the small room, grab Dean’s shoes on the run and exit the store like it’s on fire. They lean against each other, gasping laughs and there’s a joy bubbling between them that hasn’t been there in years. Sam feels young and reckless and stupid happy, ignoring for just a minute whatever sinister force got them to this point.
They’re just passing Victoria’s Secret when Dean makes a sharp, sudden turn, veering into the store. It takes Sam only a minute to realize he’s gone, but once he’s found Dean, he’s possibly more shocked than he’s been all day -- including the instant that Dean’s mouth found his cock for the first time.
Dean’s slipped on a black, lacy thong, right over his pants. It’s a sheer strip of cloth that shouldn’t even be considered an item of clothing as far as Sam’s concerned. But, the panties aren’t the strangest thing going on with his brother. Dean’s standing in front of one of the full-length mirrors applying lip gloss like a pro, smacking his lips in a way that makes Sam want to shove him into the reflective surface and stick his tongue down Dean’s throat.
A young woman is standing to the side, wringing her hands, eyes gone round and shocked. Sam grabs Dean by the elbow, starts steering him towards the counter, catching the lady’s eye and saying, “We’ll take the panties and the lip gloss, thanks. And as soon as I can get them off my br . . . uh, my friend, we’d like a bag.”
He wrestles with Dean a minute, but finally gets the underwear off and into the bag with the leftover gloss. Tossing some money on the counter, he grabs the bag and Dean’s hand, pulling him out of the store before Dean can get his hands on the silk stockings he’s reaching for.
It takes all of Sam’s strength to get Dean to the car and strapped into the seat belt. He wants to ask what prompted this last bit of insanity, but he’s scared to hear the answer.
Dean fumbles in the glove box for a bit, coming up with a napkin, wiping at his mouth in sharp swipes. Once done, he tosses it over his shoulder then runs both hands down his thighs, gripping his knees like he’s not sure what the hell’s going to happen to him next.
Sam fights the urge to reach for Dean’s hand, but it’s a near thing; he has to grip the wheel tight and concentrate on the road.
Neither of them say anything for a while until Dean snarls, “Hungry,” just as they’re passing the sign for a diner that’s a couple of miles down the road.
Figuring food might be a good idea -- and hoping beyond hope that nothing else crazy happens -- Sam pulls into the parking lot. It’s a struggle to find a parking place. The food’s either really good, or this is the only place to eat for miles, because the parking lot is jam packed with cars.
It’s crowded inside, they’re barely able to get a booth and nearly come to blows with a couple of bikers over the last available seats. The menu is standard diner fare and Sam’s just too hungry and too freaked out by the events of the day to care much about it. He orders a burger and fries and Dean opts for the whole shebang -- double bacon cheeseburger, chili cheese fries, onion rings and a double portion of cherry pie, fucking a la mode. Sam’s shocked by the amount of food Dean can put away while still maintaining a frankly smokin’ body. It boggles the mind.
They chat about the case, about the weather, about the ratty ass motel room they’re staying in, clearly skirting the bigger issues. It’s awkward and there’s very little eye contact, but halfway through the meal Dean slides his foot along Sam’s and leaves it there. Sam thinks that’s probably the equivalent of holding hands in Dean’s mind and chalks it up to a step in the right direction. Maybe things will be fine, after all. Clearly they’d both been thinking along the same lines, this thing, whatever the hell it is, just seemed to help them along.
He’s reaching for his wallet, ready to pay the tab when Dean starts in on his pie. About three bites in, Dean’s eyes glaze over and he dumps the entire dish of pie and ice cream right on his chest, using his hands to smear it into his shirt in the best damn imitation of a porn star Sam’s ever seen. Dean’s moaning and grinding the palms of his hands against his nipples, spreading the pie everywhere he can reach.
Sam feels his mouth drop open, thinks he actually hears his brain fry because it’s so fucking indecently hot. The only thing that brings him back to himself is the sound of the other customers laughing, shouting things like, “Do it! Take it off!” He throws the money on the table, jumps up and grabs Dean’s arm -- really the only place that’s clean on his entire upper body -- and maneuvers them out of the diner and back to the car.
He spends an inordinately long time trying to get Dean into the passenger seat, because Dean’s cussing a blue-streak and wrinkling his nose whenever a clean part of his body comes in contact with a filthy one. By the time he gets Dean settled, he’s pretty much covered in the remnants of pie and ice cream himself and wants to stand under a fucking hot shower for a week.
The ride back to the motel is spent trying to get Dean to explain what triggered it -- the spell, curse, compulsion, what the fuck ever it is -- this time. If Dean was less than forthcoming the first couple of times, this time it’s like talking to a brick wall.
“Nothing. I was thinking nothing. I have no idea why I did it.”
“Dean--”
“Sam--”
“Look, whatever it is, it can’t be that embarrassing. Think about it this way, today alone you’ve stripped in public, we sucked each other off in the dressing room at a mall and then you tried on women’s underwear. There really doesn’t seem like a lot of room for secrets here, anymore. Especially if we plan on finding whatever’s doing this to you and gank the motherfucker. Unless you like doing random crazy shit. In that case, just keep it all to yourself and I’ll keep sitting back and laughing my ass off at you when you go random batshit. Okay? Okay.”
“God, you’re fucking annoying. You know that?”
“Yeah, but you love me anyway.”
“It’s a good damn thing I do. Fine. Mr. Know-It-All-Let’s-Talk-About-Our-Feelings, I was thinking about spreading that pie all over your body and licking it off you. Feel better now?”
Sam swerves into oncoming traffic and has to fight the wheel for a couple of beats to get things back under control. He wishes his fucking body was as easy to rein in, because just those words, just the thought of Dean sitting there thinking thoughts like that has him fucking hard, fucking fast.
“What? Nothing to say, Sammy? Cat got your tongue?”
“Fuck you, Dean.”
Dean’s voices drops lower, he scoots close into Sam’s side, putting his mouth right next to Sam’s ear. Sam has to stop himself from reaching down, grinding his palm into his dick. “Yeah, that was the idea, Sammy. Rub that pie all over your body, lick my way along your skin, not able to tell which tastes better. Get you all worked up and then let you fuck me. Nice little fantasy I was having . . .”
Sam coughs, clearing his throat and uses one of his free hands to push Dean back to his side of the car. The hand comes back covered in goop that transfers to his pants when he scrubs it against his thigh. God, they’re never going to get fucking clean.
They’re silent again, for most of the rest of the ride. Dean mumbles things to the passenger side window like disgusting fucker cunt bastard douchebag motherfucker kill him kill him dead and Sam tries not to laugh, but doesn’t quite succeed, earning him a glare followed by a really brutal punch to the shoulder.
The motel parking lot is full, like there might be a fucking convention in town. What the hell is it with this place? People stare at them like they’re aliens, Dean flipping them off until Sam manages to herd him into the room.
Both heading for the bathroom at the same time, they collide, bouncing off each other and prompting some really inventive swearing from Dean. “No. Hell, no, Sammy. I’m way the fuck filthier than you and I’ve had a really piss-poor day. That shower is mine and I will beat your ass down if you try to stop me.”
Sam puts both hands up in a defensive gesture, but then folds them in the universal-Winchester sign for rock-paper-scissors. “What do you say, Dean?”
“I say fuck you, bitch. You want a shower, crawl in there with me. Otherwise get out of my way.” Dean stomps through the bathroom door, slamming it behind him.
Dean continues to swear for most of his shower and Sam spends that time flipping channels and randomly bursting into giggle fits. He knows they’re going to have to get serious after this. Do some research, find the bastard who cursed Dean, because it’s all been fun and games so far, but there’s no telling where this is leading. It’s just so strange and kinda wonderful to be laughing again with Dean. At Dean. Whichever. It’s just nice to laugh again.
When Dean comes out of the shower he’s more subdued, even a tad apologetic. “Look, Sammy, about earlier--”
Sam puts his hand on Dean’s shoulder. It’s still damp, warm from the shower and Sam can’t stop himself from squeezing a bit, letting his fingers trail up into the wet fringes of Dean’s hair. “You’ve had a bad day. I get it.”
Time seems to stop between them. Sam wants to duck down, suck Dean’s lower lip between his teeth. Kiss that mouth that was so skillful on his dick. Their first kiss. Feel Dean’s mouth open, letting him slip his tongue inside. Their lips are almost touching when there’s a knock on the door.
“Housekeeping!”
“Fuck,” they both say and the moment dissolves like vapor.
“I’ll get it,” Dean says, voice lower, thick with something undefinable. “You go shower.”
Sam can only nod, heading for the bathroom. Just one more minute and he’d have had Dean flat on his back on the bed, housekeeping be damned. Maybe a cold shower would be the best idea.
The cold water does little to remove the stickiness so Sam switches to hot about halfway through his shower. Standing under the warm spray, Sam lets his mind drift to possible causes for their current situation.
It has to be something powerful. Something that can override free will or force the hand of fate. Like a trickster. Like an angel. Or . . . like a God.
Well, that would make sense. Every God they’ve met up to this point has been a gigantic douchebag that loves to screw with humanity. He just can’t imagine where they’ve run into one lately, or what they’ve -- Dean’s -- done to provoke its anger. Yeah, Dean’s pretty provoking just by breathing but they really haven’t had many run-ins with things lately that have lived to hold a grudge.
So, maybe this is some sort of revenge thing, then? Some punishment for a past transgression.
He finishes his shower quickly after that, ready to boot up his computer and get to work. When he comes out of the bathroom, the room is eerily quiet, lights off and shades drawn. Dean’s sprawled on his own bed, face-down and snoring softly.
Deciding that Dean probably needs sleep more than anything and not wanting to tempt their luck, Sam leaves him to sleep and sets out to research on his own.
Hours later, after some really imaginative internet searches and a nice, long chat with a retired hunter, Sam thinks he has the answer: Ananke, an ancient Greek snake-like Goddess and mate of Chronos. Well, that explains things, then. It had only been a few weeks ago when they’d taken out Chronos, so his mate had apparently decided on revenge. Although, considering Chronos was shacked up with some human, Sam couldn’t understand why his mate would be all torn up about his death, but then again, he never did understand monster logic.
Scrubbing a hand over his eyes, he shuts the computer down, strips to his boxers and climbs into bed. He’s tired, worn down from the events of the day and is asleep soon after his head hits the pillow.
He’s in the middle of a dream about zombie clowns when he feels someone -- Dean -- nudging him over and crawling into bed with him. He’s confused for a moment, barely awake, but soon catches on to the fact that, apparently, Dean’s in the mood to snuggle. And he wants to be the little spoon. Sam doesn’t say a word, just wraps his arms around Dean, pulling his brother close and kissing the soft spot under his ear. Dean hums, a contented sound deep in the back of his throat, settles his ass snug into Sam’s groin and goes back to sleep, the sound of his soft snores somehow more comforting to Sam than any sound he’s ever heard.
He drifts back to sleep, trying to figure out what thought it was that got Dean into his arms in the middle of the night. Whatever it was, it suits Sam just fine.
-----
Morning finds Dean in the mood to kick a little monster ass. “Rise and shine, Sammy! Let’s go gank this motherfucker!”
Sam’s disappointed that he doesn’t get to wake up with Dean next to him, even though he can still feel the heat from Dean’s body all along his side. “I take it you read my research, then? Got all up to speed on what we’re facing?”
“Yeah, there’s just one little problem, moron. You forgot to figure out how to kill the thing.”
“I didn’t forget, Dean. I couldn’t actually find a way. No one seems to know.”
“Looks like we got a project for today, then.”
Groaning, Sam pulls the covers up under his chin and contemplates catching just an hour or two more of sleep. The bedside clock reads 7:16AM and he’d only managed to make it to bed a little after four. He’s almost dozed back off when Dean hits him in the face with a pillow. “I’m not kidding, Sam. Get your ass out of bed. I’m tired of losing control like this. It fucking sucks not knowing what’s going to happen next.”
While Sam dresses, Dean makes a quick trip to the deli next door. Sam’s reluctant to let Dean out of his sight, but Dean tells him to stop being a pussy bitch and rushes out before Sam can stop him.
He throws on clothes and then paces the entire fifteen minutes it take for Dean to come back with the food, wondering what sort of trouble Dean could get into on his own.
Sam’s so relieved when Dean comes through the door, clearly fine and not under the influence of some crazy Goddess, that he grabs Dean and pulls him into his arms, burying his head in Dean’s hair.
“Dude. Are we hugging now?”
Trust Dean to still act like a complete fucking jerk after they’ve had sex and cuddled all night. It’s becoming pretty obvious to Sam why Dean’s never been able to sustain a relationship. “Eat me, jerk,” he grumbles, going for the food and coffee to try to hide the blush he can feel creeping up the back of his neck.
“Maybe later,” Dean says, quietly, smirking in a way that might be shyness on anyone less confident than Dean Winchester.
They settle in with their food, Sam’s computer and several books on Ancient Greek lore, but come up with blanks at every turn. They call every hunter they’ve ever known, the loss of Bobby’s seemingly unending knowledge felt once again.
It’s well past 8PM when Dean throws his hands up says, “Fuck this, I’m starving. And I need a beer. Or six,” and they head out for the local bar.
It’s karaoke night at the bar and it’s another struggle to find a place to sit. Dean goes to the bar to order their beers while Sam sprawls in a chair, frustrated like Hell that they haven’t been able to find out the Goddess’s weakness. He’s run out of ideas, doesn’t know where to look next. Doesn’t even know how to find the bitch if they did by some miracle figure out how to kill her.
Dean returns with a beer in each hand and a bowl of something balanced on his arm.
“You’d make a good waitress, Dean,” Sam says, just to see the look on Dean’s face. He’s rewarded with a scowl that would send most people running for the hills in fright. It just makes Sam laugh and swat Dean on the ass before taking his beer.
“Try that again and you’ll lose that hand.”
“You liked it. Just fucking admit it and quit dancing around this thing with us like it didn’t happen.” Sam’s tired of pretending, figures he’ll have to be the one to do the heavy lifting in this if they’re ever going to work out what’s going on between them.
“Yeah, okay. Just not in public, Sammy.”
“What the hell does it matter if we do things like that in public? I know you’re not homophobic, not the way you did what you did so well.”
“Did it well, huh?” Dean huffs out a self-satisfied laugh, then continues, “And, no, I’m not homophobic. I don’t give a rat’s ass if people think I’m gay. What I don’t think people will get is the fact that I’m being gay with my brother.”
“No one knows we’re brothers, Dean. We don’t look that much alike. We could just be two boyfriends out for a nice date, flirting like a normal couple.”
Dean takes a long swig of beer, neck working, lips latched around the the bottle and Sam shifts in his seat. “Is that what we are, then? A couple?” Dean finally asks, after he’s started on his second beer of the night.
Sam thinks very carefully over his answer. Thinks about what it really means, what Dean really means to him. “Honesty?”
“Of course. That’s about all we have to offer each other at this point.”
Sam swallows, takes a sip of beer. Leaning in, he pulls Dean towards him by the lapels of his jacket. Dean’s eyes go wide, but Sam doesn’t give him time to think or push him away, he just presses his mouth to Dean’s like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And when their lips meet, it actually is.
The kiss isn’t awkward or forced, it’s a hot, slick slide of tongues, the mapping of of each other’s mouths and it takes a considerable amount of willpower for Sam to pull back, mindful of the fact that they’re in public and he can’t just spread Dean out on the bar and have his way with him. Picking up the thread of the conversation, Sam says, “I’d like to be. A couple. If that’s what you want.”
“I just want you, Sammy. However you’ll have me.”
It’s possibly one of the most sincere things Dean’s ever said and means more because it’s so not something Dean would normally say to anyone. He’d never open himself up like this, not for anyone but Sam.
Before Sam can say any of the nine hundred things running through his mind, Dean jumps up, runs to the stage and grabs the microphone from the last singer. Punching a few buttons on the karaoke machine, he starts moving in time to the music. Sam’s flabbergasted. There’s really no other word for the feeling coursing through his body as Dean starts singing the corniest possible song in the history of corny songs.
Love is in the air, everywhere I look around
Oh, God. Sam prays for the floor to open up and swallow him, as Dean saunters over, wiggling his hips in beat with the music, shoulders swaying to the rhythm.
Love is in the air, every sight and ever sound
People are screaming as Dean dances around his chair. This is the worst one. The worst fucking thing this curse has done and Sam vows to find a way to make this crazy Greek bitch pay. And pay really fucking hard.
And I don't know if I'm being foolish, don’t know if I’m being wise
Nope, not wise. Really, really fucking foolish.
But it's something that I must believe in, and it’s there when I look in your eyes
Dean’s playing the room like a bad version of Barry Manilow, now. Thankfully not focusing all his attention on Sam. Sam’s tempted to just make a run for it. See how far he can get before Dean notices he’s gone. Women -- and a few men -- are throwing money at Dean as he shakes his ass around the room.
And then -- oh, Jesus -- he climbs up on the bar and it’s like a really bad knock-off of Coyote Ugly. Except, and Sam’s loath to admit this even to himself, it’s kinda hot, because even while Dean’s playing the crowd, he keeps looking at Sam, eyes gone dark, pupils blown wide.
As the song comes to an end, Dean jumps down, shimmying his butt all the way across the bar until he’s back in front of Sam.
Love is in the air
Love is in the air
Love is in the air
Love is in the air
The bar goes wild, whistling and screaming their approval. Sam thinks they’re extremely lucky that they apparently found a gay friendly bar, because this could have turned out so much different. He signals for the waitress, hoping to pay the tab, but she waves him away, saying, “Your money’s no good here! A few beers is a fair exchange for that show!”
Dean ends his performance by flopping down in Sam’s lap, lips finding a spot just below Sam’s ear and sucking on it in a way that makes him want to beg for mercy. Instead, he somehow manages to find his voice. “Uh, Dean? Ready to go?”
“Didn’t you like my song, Sammy?” Dean moans against his jawbone and Sam starts considering the feasibility of public sex. Maybe there’s an alley, a phone booth. The backseat of the car. Somewhere. Anywhere he can get his hands on Dean again.
Sam can tell the exact moment when Dean comes fully back to himself, because his forehead hits Sam’s shoulder and he groans in frustration. “Oh, God, that was the worst one yet. If you ever breathe a word of this, Sam, I swear to God--”
“Yeah, yeah. Who am I gonna tell?”
“Tou-fucking-che.”
And then they’re laughing again, gasping for air and stumbling towards the door. They burst out into the darkness, still snorting, leaning against each other, breath fogging up the night. One minute they’re holding hands, nudging each other’s shoulders in a fond sort of way and the next they’re in an old warehouse. Sam’s strapped to a chair, ropes digging painfully into his wrists and Dean’s frozen in place several feet away.
It takes Sam a few minutes to figure out what’s going on and he’s not entirely sure until the woman appears beside him. She’s wearing a very toga looking dress and clutching a Kopis -- a long, razor sharp blade used in sacrifice. Sam’s only seen them in books, and once in a museum he visited with Jessica. This one’s not dulled with age, doesn’t look like an antique at all, it looks brand new and well cared for.
Dean’s struggling to move, but clearly Ananke has him under her power. But he’s fighting it, throwing curses at her, seething with suppressed anger. She just seems to find it amusing. “Have you figured out why you’re here, Dean? Why I’ve chosen to grace you with my presence?”
“Yeah,” Dean bites out. “You’ve got your fucking ancient panties in a twist over your little lover boy Chronos. What I don’t get is why. He was shacked up with another woman. Fucking another woman!”
“This does not matter. We often consort with humans,” she made humans sound like insects or mud on someone’s shoe. “We always come back to each other, in the end. But for now, because you’ve taken him away from me forever.”
“Why the fuck did you pick on me, anyway, lady? It was Sam who ganked the bastard!”
“Thanks, Dean. Way to throw me under the bus, there.”
“It’s the principle, man! This shit always happens to me!”
“I picked you because this one hurts more when you hurt. I wanted him to suffer. Wanted him to feel what I felt when he took my mate. So I will take his.”
“I’m not his mate. I’m his brother!”
“Dean--”
“Really not the time to get your feelings hurt, here, Sammy!”
“Silence! What is that silly human saying? Ah, yes. Be careful what you wish for. You both want each other so desperately. Anyone can see, even without the powers of a God, that you two are one. Just as my love was my other half, so are you, to each other. And so taking you will destroy something in this one. I will burn the heart from him and that is worse than killing him. Killing him would be quick. An ending. This is much more fun.”
She licks the tip of the knife and hands it, handle first to Dean, coming to lean down and whisper in Sam’s ear. “He wants to kill me. Wants it with every breath he takes. You’re a smart boy, you’ve figured out the way my curse works. What’s going to happen now?”
Instantly Sam knows exactly what she’s talking about. For two days Dean’s wanted many things and her compulsion spell has caused him to do those things he wanted to do to others, to himself. So, if he wants to kill this Goddess bitch. Oh, fuck, no. Fuck, no.
“Dean! Dean fucking listen to me! You can fight this. You’re the most stubborn bastard I know. Don’t let her do this. Dean, no!” But his words are having no effect. He might as well be spouting Ancient Greek for all the difference it’s making, because Dean’s just used the knife to carve a long line from his wrist to his elbow. Blood wells black in the darkness, dripping to the floor with a sickening splash.
Sam strains against his bonds, feels the ropes cutting, shredding his skin, but he can’t get loose. They’re probably fucking spelled. Unbreakable bonds. He’s going to have to sit here and watch his brother kill himself without being able to do a goddamned thing. She was right, this would destroy him more permanently than death.
Dean continues carving himself up and Ananke dances around him in glee, urging him on, encouraging him to rip himself to pieces. So, Sam does the only thing he can think of that might help -- he starts talking to Dean.
“Dean, please. Please, don’t let her do this to you. To us. Fight it, man. Fight this. You don’t go out this way. We don’t go down like this.”
Ananke turns her attention to Sam, petting at his hair like he’s a disobedient dog. “Talk all you want, Sammy, no one can fight my power.”
But she’s wrong, because something in the way Dean’s moving has changed, like the sound of Sam’s voice is somehow getting through. Dean falls face-first onto the floor, sprawled out on his stomach and Sam can’t tell whether he’s breathing or not. Ananke laughs, the sound slithering along Sam’s skin like tiny knife-pricks. Patting his cheek she says, “I hope you enjoy watching him die,” and then she’s gone, disappearing in a bright flash of light that leaves him blind for a few minutes.
He’s lost all feeling in his hands by the time he works himself free of his bonds. Dean hasn’t moved, hasn’t so much as moaned or gasped in pain and there’s blood everywhere. Sam has no fucking clue where they are or what the fuck to do next.
Dean’s covered in blood, but the best Sam can tell from his hurried triage is that it’s mostly superficial wounds, the worst being that first cut, before Sam’s voice changed something inside Dean. He slips out of his shirt, wrapping it tight around the wound, staunching the blood in the only way available to him.
Sam sits there, Dean in his lap, rocking back and forth, not sure what the fuck to do now. He’s scared in a way that reminds him of being young and newly introduced to the supernatural world, but all those times it was Dean holding him, the weight of responsibility on Dean’s shoulders.
It feels like hours, but it’s probably only a few minutes before Dean starts coming around, groaning and cussing and trying to fight his way into a sitting position.
“What the fuck happened to your wrists, Sammy?”
“Nothing. It’s nothing.”
“It’s not fucking nothing. Your arms are fucking covered in blood. Here, let me get my shirt off. See what we can do to stop that shit before you faint and I wind up carrying your gigantic ass out of here.” Dean actually starts thrashing around, trying to work his way out of his shirt, not even realizing that he’s far more injured than Sam. It’s so typical and so entirely Dean that Sam has to fight breaking down and bawling into Dean’s lap.
He sniffs loudly, fighting his emotions. Manages to choke out, “Most of the blood’s not mine, Dean. Most of it’s yours,” past the lump in his throat. “So would you just shut the fuck up for a minute and let me take care of you for a change?” That last bit comes out a little hysterical and okay, he’s not really fucking crying, definitely not. And he’s definitely not drawing Dean close, whispering into his neck. so scared so scared thought you were dead can’t fucking lose you not now not ever.
Dean lifts his less injured arm, cards his fingers through the hair at the base of Sam’s neck, stroking, soothing. “It’s okay, Sammy. I’m right here. I’m fine. We’re fine. Everything’s fine.”
It’s just like when they were young, when the feel of Dean’s arms meant strength and security and home. Except now, Dean pulls him forward, kisses him softly and mumbles something that sounds strangely like I love you against Sam’s lips.
“Dean, I--”
“Shut up, Sammy. If you ever mention this moment again, I’ll swear it was the blood loss talking. But, you should know that I do. And I always have. And I will. Forever. Now, can you get me up off this fucking floor and somewhere warm with lots of booze? Because I don’t know if you’ve noticed or not, but I’m bleeding to death here.”
Sam helps him off the floor and they start searching for a way out of the building. They’re stranded, lost and injured, but they’re together and that’s really all that’s ever mattered.
“I’m sorry she got away, Dean.”
“Oh, she didn’t get away. Trust me, Sammy, if it’s the last fucking thing I do, that bitch is going down.”